


Golden

by 221b_hound



Series: Captains of Industry [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes Sherlock to Bendigo to celebrate his birthday. It turns out #dumplingwonderful</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden

**Author's Note:**

> You can find some [Captains of Industry art over here.](http://www.redbubble.com/people/narrelleharris/collections/412681-captains-of-industry)
> 
> There's also this [new Sherlock Holmes romance I wrote. ](https://narrellemharris.wordpress.com/my-books/the-adventure-of-the-colonial-boy/) Thank you for all the support!

Sherlock’s birthday falls on a Wednesday, so it’s few days before John has some time off to take his boyfriend away for the weekend. John picks Bendigo because of the Blues Tram, mainly. Plus, he’s never been there, and as an old Gold Rush town it is, various people tell him, Very Historical.

Sherlock isn’t terribly interested in visiting the old gold mine, but the Chinese Museum is another matter. He’s not convinced about the Blues Tram, but frankly, it’s been years since anybody even remembered his birthday at all, himself included, and he is stupidly pleased that John wants to do something for the occasion. Sherlock would just have happily stayed in bed and had sex all weekend, but being with John anywhere, anytime, for any reason, is still in its golden phase. He hasn’t had nearly enough of it yet.

Bendigo is an hour and a half away on a V-Line train. John and Sherlock spend it sitting opposite each other reading books they got for Christmas. They’re both wearing the patinaed shoes that John made, and superbly tailored suits that Mycroft made. They have their new satchels. They are both supremely content to be sitting in companionable silence, their prettily shod feet pressed close together. From time to time, one or the other looks up to the scenery of the Australian countryside flowing by, the landscape all parched browns and pale, desiccated greens. It’s a thirsty but unquenched country, especially now in the middle of summer.

Seeing the dry stretches of the landscape outside the city, Sherlock finally understands why Australian tourists to Great Britain go fucking on and on and fucking on about how _green_ everything is, as though they’d never seen green before. Turns out, maybe they haven’t. Maybe they know the greens of olive and laurel and sage and mint, but less so the lush emerald and forest greens, the vibrant Kelly or spring green of the United Kingdom, with its abundance of water and a sun that’s kind. The Australian sun can be kind too, but it can be a killer.

‘Penny for them?’

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John. ‘Only a penny?’

’50 cents, then.’

‘A gold coin at least, surely.’

At the sardonic look on John’s face, Sherlock wonders if he’s been too egotistical. He hasn’t wondered or worried about that for months now. John seems to find it amusing and also endearing when Sherlock praises his own brain. Tickets on yourself, is the Australian expression. _Damn. Does he think I’m…?_

John’s eyes flick around the carriage to see who’s watching, then leans forward, hands on Sherlock’s knees. His moustache moves with the quirk of John’s mouth (Sherlock swears he could see only the moustache and know what John’s face was doing) and then John’s tongue peeps out to swipe over his lower lip and his blue eyes are crinkled at the corner with a smile that’s all over his face even if it’s not fully in the tilt of his mouth, and John says,

‘All the gold in New Gold Mountain.’

Sherlock blinks, captivated, reassured, and also aroused.

The smile gets to John’s mouth now, which tilts up on one side. ‘It’s what the Chinese called the goldfields here, in the 1850s. California was Gold Mountain. This was New Gold Mountain.’

Sherlock can’t stop looking at John’s mouth. John is talking about Australian history, but that’s not what Sherlock is hearing.

‘Do you know what you are Sherlock?’ says John.

His voice is as soft and golden as precious metal. Sherlock shakes his head. No, he doesn’t know.

‘You’re my lucky strike. My treasure.’ John grins wide this time, leans back in his chair and picks up his book again, as though his treasure, his joy, his golden boy, isn’t sitting right across from him, his cheeks flushed with pleasure and eyes glowing, heated by love.

*

They check into the Schaller Studio – one of Victoria’s Art Hotels, all contemporary design inspired by an Australian artist.

Sherlock wants to take John out of all his clothes and suck him off right then and there – it’s his birthday and he damned well ought to be allowed – but John dances out of the way and Sherlock has to stick with John’s schedule after all.

The schedule includes coffee at the hotel café before a stroll into town to meet the Blues Tram at the Deborah Gold Mine. For an hour they sit, squashed happily close together, at one end of the historic tram. They listen to Marisa Quigley and her Sunday Best, who are crammed cheerfully together in the centre of the carriage. The tram wends its way from the defunct gold mine to the Joss House (still in use) and back. Some of the passengers sing along with the band. _My man is sweeter than honey, oh he tastes so fine._ John presses close to Sherlock, hums along, grins at Sherlock, and Sherlock sings a few lines into John’s ear.

_He’s down on his knees, he aims to please…_

His baritone makes John shiver, and wriggle, and Sherlock thinks it’s not as satisfying as he’d thought to get a bit of his own back. Now they’re both aroused and not anywhere they can do something about it.

Sherlock has his arm around John’s waist, under John’s coat, so it’s discreet. John places his hand on Sherlock’s under that woven shelter, and rubs the tips of his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s. He turns his head to sing against the skin of Sherlock’s throat.

_He’s got a great big heart, a personality to match._

Sherlock can’t hear him, really, over Marisa Quigley’s own powerful voice, but he can feel John’s lips move, can feel his breath.

This is a game of one upmanship that can only lead to arrest for some kind of public indecency. Sherlock feels willing to risk it. But then John laughs softly, squeezes Sherlock’s fingers and moves a fraction away from him.

Damn John Watson all to hell.

*

After the Blues Tram, Sherlock and John walk back into town and John takes him into Rocks on Rosalind, the former bank. The waiter points out the bullet hole in the wall, memento of some long past robbery attempt. The waiter thinks it might have been the Kelly Gang, but seriously, every second person, every second business, around rural Victoria claims to have some passing connection with Ned Kelly. Declaring historical connections with the national anti-hero is some kind of Olympic sport.

Throughout lunch, John and Sherlock’s feet touch under the table. John opts for the Thai curry with Moreton Bay bugs and Sherlock, who can never be arsed to dig the meat from the shellfish tail, has the pork fillet dressed with kimchi pear and green tea pea puree. They feed tastes to each other, and the waiter brings them complimentary champagne on the belief that it’s some kind of anniversary. For dessert, they can’t decide between the chocolate pudding and saffron caramel and the peanut butter ice cream sandwich, so they get both, and are stuffed full by the time they leave to meander across Rosalind Park.

Half way across the park, Sherlock takes pity on John, or else John takes pity on Sherlock, at least as far as retreating to the trees on the far side of the rotunda. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s shoulders, John wraps his around Sherlock’s waist. They lip at each other’s jaws. They kiss, melting together, tasting the sweetness of indulgent desserts and champagne. They cling, fingers threaded through each other’s hair, and kiss, and lick and kiss, and holy fuck, if they don’t get naked soon, there’ll be the first documented case of spontaneous combustion.

But then John retreats, flushed, panting, adjusting his trousers, and he says,

‘Don’t want to miss the Chinese Museum.’

Despite expressing interest in the world’s oldest processional imperial dragon, and the artefacts of the long history of the Chinese in Australia – apparently one of the priceless screens housed in the collection is related to a complicated murder in the early 20th century – Sherlock would happily forego the museum.

‘You are trying to kill me,’ Sherlock declares.

John kisses him again. Presses his body all along Sherlock’s, as much as he can while they’re both vertical, and says, ‘It’ll be worth the wait.’

Sherlock has no doubt of that at all.

*

The museum is diverting, partly because Sherlock spends the hour quietly describing to John how a clever man might successfully steal the numerous large and weighty and hugely valuable Chinese screens and jade decorations away. When the museum attendants catch some aural hint of the plans and look at them sharply, Sherlock gives them his most winning and charming smile, making John laugh. They leave before they are thrown out for nebulous sins not yet committed.

John takes Sherlock’s hand as they emerge onto Bridge Street and head back to the Schaller on Lucan.

‘Happy birthday, Sherlock.’

Sherlock is holding John’s hand and his blood is singing in his veins.

_My man is sweeter than honey, oh he tastes so fine._

They walk close, hip to hip.

On Wednesday, John had given Sherlock a gift. It was a collection of Australian crime stories written by one of the earliest writers of the genre, a woman named Mary Fortune. She wrote under the name Waif Wanderer in the Victoria era, some of the world’s first police procedurals among them. A Melbourne bar was named after her now, after being so long forgotten.

‘Thank you again for the book,’ says Sherlock now. But the book is the least thing he’s grateful for. The gift John has given him, of being here, of loving him, is the best thing in Sherlock’s life. Ever. Ever. Ever.

‘Hey.’ John raises Sherlock’s hand, which is holding tight to his, and kisses his knuckles. ‘My treasure. I love you.’

Sherlock means to say I love you back, but he can’t speak. He is looking at John like he could beam feeling of loving John directly into John’s mind, so that he knows, unequivocally.

But this is John.

John knows already.

In their studio room, John proves that he knows. He slowly undresses Sherlock, kissing every part of him as it’s revealed. Sherlock disrobes John too, and they step into the shower. There’s not a lot of room in there, but they don’t need much, pressed close together, kissing, rubbing each other’s bodies – back and arms and their most intimate places – with scented body wash. The drying is only half done, because they can’t wait any more. They fold onto the bed together, kissing, licking, rutting.

Before long Sherlock is on his back, legs bent up while John makes him moan and plead by nuzzling his moustache into the cleft of his arse and licking his tongue into Sherlock’s anus. John licks and kisses and nuzzles wetly into Sherlock until Sherlock is incoherent, then he grabs hold of the lube, slicks them both up and then John H Watson takes his own sweet time fucking his treasure until they’re both hot sweaty messes, covered in perspiration and come.

Afterwards, John giggles as he kisses the curve of Sherlock’s stomach.

‘Some day maybe you’ll get a little pot belly; you’ll be my dumpling then.’ He smooches smooth flat belly with a noisy, smacking kiss. ‘You’re my dumpling now.’

Sherlock wriggles with the tickling of John’s moustache and the noisy kiss and the idea that John imagines his pot bellied future self with such fondness, and being called dumpling. It’s ridiculous. It’s illogical. It’s wonderful. #dumplingwonderful

*

Eventually, they have to check out. They do so as late as possible, have breakfast in the hotel restaurant, and walk around the town, looking the historical architecture and stopping to buy local jams and cheeses to take home on the mid-afternoon train. Half of it doesn’t make it that far, eaten instead with fresh bread in Rosalind Park.

They kill time at The Dispensary in Chancery Lane. For some inexplicable reason, there’s a portrait of the actor Bill Murray done up like he’s a Victorian admiral on one wall. They’re not in the mood for the boutique ciders, beers or wines and decide to try the Lemon Lime and Bitters menu. They’re familiar with the standard version of lemonade, lime cordial and a dash of Angostura Bitters, but here John goes for the Aztec Chocolate Bitters. Sherlock declares the whole thing an abomination, until he tastes the Bitter Truth bitters, with raisins and citrus, and discovers it tastes like liquid fruit mince pies.

On the train home, they sit side by side. John dozes, leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock finishes reading the Mary Fortune mysteries.

He wonders what it might have been like, to be a detective in the Victorian era. John moves, pushing his cheek against Sherlock’s sleeve, and Sherlock kisses the top of John’s head. He decides he wouldn’t have liked it. He wouldn’t have been able be with John in the same way, in those even more homophobic days, and that’s unthinkable.

John hums and settles, content, against Sherlock’s side.

 _Then again,_ Sherlock thinks, _we would have found a way. If we had been us, back then. We would have found a way._

If Sherlock Holmes knows nothing else, he knows this. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong together.

 _Happy birthday to me_ , Sherlock thinks. He kisses the top of John’s head again, and rests his cheek there, and smiles. Because his life is perfect. Wonderful. #dumplingwonderful

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: forgot to add my thank you to Atlin Merrick for the dumpling scene.
> 
> This is the [Schaller Art Hotel](http://www.artserieshotels.com.au/schaller/)  
> This is [The Blues Tram](http://www.bendigobluesandroots.com.au/bluestram.php)  
> This is [ Marisa Quigley's song 'My Man'](https://soundcloud.com/marisaquigley/my-man-bonus-track?in=marisaquigley/sets/gypsys-lament)  
> This is [Rocks on Rosalind](http://rocksonrosalind.com/). There really is a bullet hole in it from its past days as a bank.  
> And here's [some information about Mary Fortunte ](http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/fortune-mary-helena-12925) who really was one of the mothers of crime, writing in the genre well ahead of Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> And pictures of the [Bill Murray portrait and the Blues tram are on CaptainsofJohnlock](http://captainsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/140893264538/the-first-two-pictures-are-from-the-dispensary-in)


End file.
